Read Highland Surrender Online
Authors: Dawn Halliday
Highland Surrender (4 page)
A low, inhuman noise stopped her in her tracks. It came from a nearby cluster of bushes, and she swung her head around but could see nothing beyond the thick screen of green. When the sound faded, silence settled through the forest, but she remained frozen in place, listening intently. And then there it was again. A low groan. A sound of pain.
An animal must be injured in the brush. Those cursed poachers had probably shot the poor creature, and it had run away, only to eventually collapse in the bushes. Ceana yanked her dirk from her basket. If she was wrong, or if the thing mistook her for a predator and attacked, at least she could defend herself.
Slowly, she approached the source of the noise, peering through the thick greenery. Leaves rustled as the creature moved, and another soft moan permeated the air.
A black mass came into view through the branches and leaves, and then Ceana froze, the breath whooshing from her lungs.
It wasn’t an animal at all. It was a man.
CHAPTER TWO
E
lizabeth crawled from the awful thorny bush, praising God her uncle couldn’t see the ungainly way in which she performed the awkward action. In fact, she thought as she yanked her sleeve from a bramble and grimaced at the screeching sound of fabric tearing, she’d like to see him attempt to accomplish the feat with more grace. First she’d strap him into her stays and her stiff stomacher, and then she’d watch in satisfaction as he floundered helplessly in the thorns.
lizabeth crawled from the awful thorny bush, praising God her uncle couldn’t see the ungainly way in which she performed the awkward action. In fact, she thought as she yanked her sleeve from a bramble and grimaced at the screeching sound of fabric tearing, she’d like to see him attempt to accomplish the feat with more grace. First she’d strap him into her stays and her stiff stomacher, and then she’d watch in satisfaction as he floundered helplessly in the thorns.
Finally straightening on the dirt path, she shook out her skirts and gazed regretfully down at her dress. Moments ago it had been a beautiful yellow silk sack gown, pleated at the shoulders and trimmed with lush embroidery and the finest lace, but now the nasty leaves and branches had snagged the expensive material, tearing her skirts and leaving lace bits to dangle haphazardly from her bodice and bell-shaped sleeves.
Pursing her lips, Elizabeth glanced up and down the path. No one was about. Thank heavens Cam had driven those awful men away. Heaven forbid he see her in such a state.
She sighed. Her thoughts just went to show how jaded and dissolute she truly was. If she were truly innocent, if she were truly a lady, she’d be terrified. She’d be a shaking lump, utterly petrified by fear. Instead, she worried about Uncle Walter and Cam seeing her in disarray.
A masked stranger had pulled her from a carriage and might have killed her, or worse, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel the requisite terror. How pitiful. She tilted her head to search her emotions, but they were a blank slate. She didn’t feel a bit of fear—or much of anything else, for that matter.
She was no fool. If another soul stood nearby, she’d make a show of fright, just so they wouldn’t grow concerned for her sanity. But since she was alone, there was no need to school her actions. She could be herself.
She could thank Uncle Walter for her strange, improper reaction, she supposed. Had this been his goal? To eradicate her ability to respond in an appropriate way? To eliminate the instinctual response to fear for her life?
And then she did feel a little something. A tiny flicker of terror. Not of the highwaymen, though, nor for her life. Of Uncle Walter himself.
Elizabeth stared down the path in the direction Cam and those awful men had gone. What if they had injured him? She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured Cam with a hole torn open in his chest. Taking gasping, wheezing breaths as his lifeblood drained from him . . .
Uncle Walter would take her back to England.
No.
She shook off the thought. Cam was capable of defending himself. Those men were rough and dirty and unskilled compared to her betrothed. She had faith in his ability to overcome them, even outnumbered as he was.
She shook off the thought. Cam was capable of defending himself. Those men were rough and dirty and unskilled compared to her betrothed. She had faith in his ability to overcome them, even outnumbered as he was.
But why hadn’t he come back?
A bird cackled nearby, and she cast an acerbic glance in the creature’s direction, then scoured the edge of the path until she found a sharp stick to use as a weapon. Who knew what kinds of ferocious beasts could be roaming this wild place?
Perhaps this was where she belonged, after all. It was wild, just like her. She smiled a little and gripped the stick tighter.
She’d go after Cam. If something had happened, if he was hurt, she’d help him.
Suddenly, the clomp of a horse’s hooves sounded from around a bend in the path. Wielding her stick like a sword, she braced her feet in the center of the narrow strip of dirt, not knowing whether she’d face the earl or one of the criminals come back to ravish her. Or hold her for ransom. Or both.
It was neither. A dark-haired man approached on horseback. He wore one of those Highland plaids that gave the men in this region such an untamed, scandalous appearance. Young Scotsmen in their plaids always made her chest tighten in pleasant appreciation. Even this one, who wore a tartan of a most appealing shade of blue but was particularly wild-looking, made her stomach flutter, when instead she ought to be scared to death—or at the very least on her guard.
He couldn’t have been involved with the attack. The difference between him and the highwaymen was obvious in his bearing, his dress, and in the horse he rode—a much finer animal than the short, skinny Scottish creatures the highwaymen had ridden.
As he drew near, she straightened her spine, lowered the stick, and adopted her “Lady Elizabeth” facade. Her uncle approved of this particular air she affected—said it made her look as haughty as a queen. Over the years, she’d refined and polished it until it shone like one of the golden Roman statues adorning the Duke of Irvington’s foyer. Until it solidified into stone, as hard as one of the Greek alabaster busts in the library.
The horse’s back legs sprayed mud as it halted before her. For a long moment, the man’s dark amber eyes perused her. Assessed her. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Who might you be?”
His rumbling accent sent a chill of awareness down her spine, but she hid it, knowing full well her visceral reaction to him was utterly ridiculous.
How had he known to speak English to her? Was her foreignness so very obvious?
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, doing her best to look down her nose at him, though his position on the horse put him several feet above her. Anyone who knew anything about manners would have dismounted before speaking to a lady of her status.
“I am Lady Elizabeth Grant, a guest of the Earl of Camdonn. Our carriages were attacked by bandits. Surely you heard the gunshots.”
“Aye.” He scanned the area. “So where are they now?”
“The earl chased them away,” she said primly.
The man seemed to do a rapid mental calculation; then he dismounted smoothly. A master horseman, she deduced. Not a peasant, certainly. She imagined a majority of the population of this poor country had no idea whatsoever how to handle a horse.
He bowed his head. His hair was dark—the color of coffee with just the barest touch of cream—but not as dark as Cam’s. “I am Robert MacLean.”
She nodded coolly. Keeping her stiff composure, inwardly she indulged in a brazen smile. Here she stood in the wilds of Scotland with a scandalously torn dress, alone on an abandoned path and at the whim of a young and handsome stranger, and they were exchanging introductions. Days ago, she could never have imagined such an absurd scenario.
Robert angled his head at the horse. “Come.”
She was surely mad. Any of the girls back home would be terrified, but Elizabeth . . . No. Again she wasn’t frightened in the least.
“Indeed I will not ‘come,’ ” she huffed. “I shall walk. I do not know you, sir. However, you must—” Before she had the opportunity to command that he go back and search for Cam, his hands encircled her waist, lifted her, and deposited her upon the horse. Then he mounted and settled behind her in the saddle. Shockingly close.
Deliciously
close. The rough wool of his plaid scraped the delicate silk of her dress, and when she inhaled she smelled him. Clean hay and leather.
Deliciously
close. The rough wool of his plaid scraped the delicate silk of her dress, and when she inhaled she smelled him. Clean hay and leather.
He adjusted the reins and wrapped one hard arm around her waist, presumably to keep her from toppling off the animal.
She looked over her shoulder, directly into Robert MacLean’s eyes. Not quite brown, not quite gold, they reminded her of autumn. No, of sweet burnt sugar. She found them as absorbing as a whirlpool. He didn’t meet her gaze; instead he stared steadily ahead. Nevertheless, she read something in the dark gold depths. Dislike, perhaps.
She turned and stared ahead at the rutted path as Robert coaxed the horse into a walk. It didn’t matter. As delicious as he appeared—coffee hair and burnt-sugar eyes, indeed!—it was certainly for the best if he didn’t like her. In any event, she wasn’t a very likable person. Nobody liked her. Which was perfectly fine, really.
Cam, however, was infinitely polite, infinitely solicitous in her presence. Did he like her? As a person, as a human being, as a woman, a lifelong companion?
Probably not. Maybe someday he would. That would be ideal, of course, but ultimately she didn’t care. As long as Cam didn’t hate her, nothing else mattered.
All she desired was freedom from Uncle Walter. And if Cam was hurt . . .
She turned to Robert MacLean. “Stop immediately. You must go back to search for Lord Camdonn. I’ll continue on foot to the castle and inform them that the earl is missing. But if he’s in dire need, you might find him first and save him. If we delay any longer, we could be too late.”
Robert MacLean didn’t respond. He didn’t even deign to look at her—instead his eyes focused unerringly on the uneven surface of the path.
“Stop at once. I insist.” She pushed at the arm clasped round her waist, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Nay.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To Camdonn Castle.”
She sat in rising frustration as the horse plodded forward. When they arrived at Camdonn Castle, Uncle Walter would take control, and she would be impotent. Desperation surged through her. She didn’t trust her uncle to help Cam. If Cam was hurt, the Highlander sitting behind her was her only hope.
When she spoke, it was in her quietest, most lethal voice. The voice that made her servants at home blanch in fear. “You must obey me.”
“Why?” He seemed mildly amused.
“Because I am the niece of the Duke of Irvington, of course.”
“Aye, and the betrothed of the Earl of Camdonn. You’ll find high-and-mighty English titles mean a wee bit less to Highlanders.”
Highlanders.
The word rolled off his tongue carnally, and her stomach fluttered even as she clenched her fists in her skirts. How dare he dismiss her order so lightly? She ground her teeth, hating him, hating even more how her body responded to him. Still, her desperation to help Cam overwhelmed it all.
The word rolled off his tongue carnally, and her stomach fluttered even as she clenched her fists in her skirts. How dare he dismiss her order so lightly? She ground her teeth, hating him, hating even more how her body responded to him. Still, her desperation to help Cam overwhelmed it all.
“I could have you horsewhipped.”
Her threat sounded as though it came from the mouth of a petulant child—no, worse. She sounded as horrible as her uncle, and a flash flood of shame thundered through her.
If Robert MacLean hadn’t hated her before, her words certainly sealed the impression. He didn’t make any move to obey her; instead, his arm stiffened about her waist, and steam seemed to billow from his body. He was so warm, she struggled not to sink into him like the softest of down quilts. Even though he was hard as stone.
It suddenly seemed far more likely he’d have
her
horsewhipped.
her
horsewhipped.
The fight drained out of her, dripped right out of her toes. She’d lost, and it was her own fault.
She closed her eyes in self-loathing. She was such a horrid brat. Lord knew she would never inflict a terrible punishment like a horse-whipping on such a delicious man. Whether he deserved it or not. She’d never consciously inflict such a punishment on
anyone
, no matter what they looked like, no matter how evil their disposition. He believed he was doing the honorable thing by taking her to Cam’s home. He couldn’t be faulted for that.
anyone
, no matter what they looked like, no matter how evil their disposition. He believed he was doing the honorable thing by taking her to Cam’s home. He couldn’t be faulted for that.
She should apologize for making such a vile threat. Certainly she should. She
must
.
must
.
But she couldn’t. The harder she tried to push
I’m sorry
from her throat, the tighter it closed, simply refusing to release the words.
I’m sorry
from her throat, the tighter it closed, simply refusing to release the words.
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